Dead Men Tell No Tales
by spazofthedead
Summary: Jack's done it again. This time, escaping with his life doesn't seem as probable. Drabble, pretty much. [Complete]


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Author's Note: Here I be again, avoiding more homework like the plague it is! Just a bit of warning about this piece: after readin' it, it'd be ever so nice if ye could refrain from killin' me off? Thanks. I already have an angry mob of friends after me with pitchforks for writing this.

It was originally written for a Music History project, so it goes best with the Allegretto movement from Beethoven's Symphony No. 7.

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Disclaimer: I own nothin', I tell ye! Nothin'! I do, however, have… uh… Uncle Tom's Cabin! Take it away! I'll PAY you to take it away from me! Please!

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Dead Men Tell No Tales

The pinkish hue of the morning light filtered through the bars of the Port Royale jail cell, coming to rest in pinstripe patterns atop the sleeping form of Captain Jack Sparrow. It was dawn, and as of yet, Jack had yet to be struck with an ingenious method of escape, as he had so many times before.

Pulling himself from his restless sleep, Jack began to wonder how exactly he had gotten himself into this mess in the first place. He hadn't a clue. He had played all his cards right, everything had been in his favor. It was that bloody Norrington. Again. Jack let an impish grin sneak across his face. The stiff had been after Jack's neck _ad infinitum_ in the past year or so, especially after the little incident with Barbossa and Jack's beloved _Black Pearl._

The sound of feet shuffling down the stairs – accompanied by mild arguing – immediately squashed Jack's random musings.

" 'Ey, you – Sparrow. Up." The first guard, Mullroy, unlocked and opened the cell door. 

"He's sleepin'," Guard number two, Murtogg, chimed in.

"I KNOW he's sleepin'!" Mullroy glared at Murtogg for a good measure.

Murtogg nervously fingered his bayonet. "I was, jus' sayin'…"

Mullroy decided to make use of his own rifle by pointing it at Jack. "I said move. You've gotta very important appointment to keep, _Mister Sparrow._"

Jack smiled inwardly. This guy obviously hadn't recovered from the last time Jack had been in Port Royale.

Mullroy again poked his rifle menacingly in Jack's direction, receiving only a sigh from the scruffy pirate.

Pushing himself off the ground, Jack stared impassively at the two guards before him. It was then that he noticed that Commodore Norrington had made himself suddenly visible from behind both Mullroy and Murtogg.

"Ah, Mister Sparrow. We meet again." Norrington had an obviously false smile plastered on his face.

"Commodore Norrington… ah… splendid…" Jack held his hands in front of him defensively.

Norrington nodded to the two guards before him, signaling them to put Jack in irons. Jack conceded and held out his hands as the irons were slid onto his wrists and secured. He was most used to this routine by now.

Jack was taken through the town in its entirety in his march to the gallows. He remembered the complete bewilderment in which he had first been forced to walk this procession. He had been completely astonished at the sheer number of people lining the streets and piled up on the street corners and in the alleyways – just to witness for themselves the elimination of a single man. A pirate. A filthy, loathsome piece of scum. The very dregs of society. Jack didn't understand this philosophy one bit.

Blocking out the jeers and the calls of the crowd wasn't a particularly difficult task. Jack looked on ahead as they neared their destination, studying the platform with the noose hanging loosely above. He had felt the rough rope, with its immanent sense of foreboding, around his neck more times than he cared to think about – yet he was here now, again, staring at that same noose and platform.

This time seemed different to him. This time, there was no out, there was no daring rescue from the Whelp, there was no lucky interference. Today. Today was the day that Captain Jack Sparrow had actually been caught. Jack knew it, and Jack knew that Norrington knew it. 

There was evident regret in Jack's usually twinkling warm, kohl-rimmed eyes as he stared on ahead. He surveyed the crowd gathered before him as he stepped up to meet the hangman. His heart sank as he gazed out over the crystalline waters of the Caribbean Sea. Narrowing his eyes, he regarded the waters he would never sail again, the freedom he would never again possess – and the _Black Pearl_. His pearl. His _Pearl_ that he had labored long and hard to finally reclaim as his. Never more.

His thoughts came to rest on his friends and crew as his list of crimes against The Crown was read above the dull roar of the crowd. To the onlookers, he became pensive for a moment, as his list of criminal pursuits seemed longer than he remembered having left it. Before he could count off more than ten to himself, however, he felt the rough surface of a rope finding its grip on his neck. The drumroll began, and Jack's eyes wandered about the crowd before him once more – noticing that the uppercrusts of the city had averted their eyes, while the rest of the villagers watched and waited with earnest delight. However, the one thing that Jack had been silently praying for was absent. He saw no Will, nor Elizabeth. Not even Mister Cotton's bloody parrot. 

He was once more brought back to reality as the drumroll ceased. The next thing he knew, the floor opened beneath him, leaving Jack clawing for something solid to land on. Nothing came. His last utterance had been lost in the cheers of the crowd, except on the ears of one man.

"Norrington, I was rootin' for ye, mate. Know that."

Upon hearing these words, Norrington turned, unable to look upon the condemned man.

Captain Jack Sparrow had finally been beaten at his own game.

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As always, reviews and constructive criticism are highly appreciated!


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